October 25th

Riverside as four august swans glide over October in The Bay of Quinte.
White feathers, white cedar, and witch hazel greens.
My Grandmother’s eyes half closed, my Grandfather’s last red rose
Sitting in a vase beside her.
When years must feel like seconds, this last day drifts on migrating wings.
Horizontal bridges stretch far, farther away to places we have yet to go.

Grandma Violet Robertson September 5th 1921—October 25th 2013